Jubilee
Breathing heavy in Beckett’s arms, I feel good. Exultant. That program could not have gone any better.
I fling my arms around him and he lifts me up, spins me around. It’s childish in its joy, but also safe compared to what we’ve been pulling. And his body against mine is a delight. Which reminds me that we cannot keep doing this. If we do, someone—me—is going to get hurt, and it’s not going to be okay. It’s going to be the end.
But I don’t want to ruin this for anyone, not yet anyway. It can wait. Heartbreak can always wait. Just another few minutes, another couple of hours, one more day of living in bliss. And then I can fuck it all up so it won’t be worse when it all goes to hell the next day, or the next.
We pick up some flowers, wave at the cheering crowds. I blow kisses, and Beckett clings to my hand until we have skated over to the exit and grab our guards from Daphne, pull them onto our skates before we go sit in the kiss-and-cry. Daphne’s on one side, Beckett’s on my other, and I’m a disaster. I hold hands with the both of them and when Beckett kisses me on the cheek, I try to hold myself together, not crack into the million pieces that are threatening.
We have to sit there, waiting, waiting. Of course we have a decent idea of what our score will be because of the elements we included and because we didn’t screw any of them up, but until the numbers come down, you can never be completely sure.
Just as I think I’m about to die, here they are. In total, a 79.62. Which is good enough to land us in first. Granted, with another team to go after us in this round and a flight of four pairs after that, but still. First. Some people don’t like being in first; can’t take the pressure. I, however, enjoy it. I don’t mind people nipping at my heels, because especially with Beckett on my team, I pretty well feel like I can outrun them.
Beckett and Daphne are going nuts, and I let them. Keep the smile plastered on my face and try not to look too out of it. I’m here, but it hasn’t completely sunk in yet. Nor will it until there’s more to sink in. Like tomorrow, when we’ll get the number that really matters. Sure, there’s only so far you can be behind and realistically make it up, but tomorrow is the big day with the big guns, and everything could still change. Likely will.
We stand and wave, and accept the cheers and adulation from the crowd, knowing it’ll only last so long. If I let myself get bogged down in exactly how fleeting this moment is, it’s depressing. So I shove that thought away for now, and let the joy flood my heart. The feeling of being on top of the world for this brief moment.
Eventually, we’re beckoned away from the kiss-and-cry, and we head back to the staging area where we’ll wait out the rest of our competitors, waiting for Daphne to tell us how they did. If it were up to me, she’d come back after each performance, but Beckett can’t take it, only wants to know at the end, so that’s what Daphne does.
In the meantime, he’s got that gleam in his eyes. I know what that means. He gets closer, close enough to kiss, and that’s what he wants from me. If it were safe to, that’s what I’d want, too. To kiss him, curl up in bed with him, meld our bodies until we know each other as well from making love as we do from skating together for hours upon hours, days upon days, week after week, month following month, and finally year after year. That’s how I want to love Beck, and that is very much why I cannot.
I stop him with a hand which I hope to pass off as a not-here-not-now rejection that won’t smart, but he knows better. Can sense it. And with the way his face forms angles where there’s usually softness, I feel like we’re going to talk about it now.
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“I’m not.” It’s a poor excuse, more like a flat-out lie and he knows it. “It’s just, you know, public.”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
When I’d been with Stephen? Nothing. Not like we were all PDA all the time or anything, but I wouldn’t hesitate to hug or kiss him in public. Athletes tend to be affectionate people, we speak with our bodies. And besides, Stephen and I were . . . together. Married. There was no earthly reason for us not to be a little affectionate when we’d been victorious. But Beckett . . . “I just can’t, okay?”
Pouty Beckett is back, but unlike that first day in our ill-fated suite, he actually looks hurt. Deeply. And I’m planning to drive the knife deeper.
“That’s not okay with me. I want more from you.”
And that, Beck, is the one thing I can’t give.
Beckett
“I trust you with my life every damn day, isn’t that enough?”
“No.” If only. “I want you to trust me with your heart.”
Jubilee looks like I’ve stabbed her. She clutches the space over her heart, and turns so pale I could swear her blood is rushing out of her body. I half-expect her to faint, and I’m ready to close the gap between us to catch her if she falls.
“I can’t. You don’t understand, what it’s like. When Stephen died, I lost everything. Everything. I lost my partner who I’d been skating with for twenty years. I lost the man I’d been with for ten. And not only that, but I had to deal with an injury at the same time. One that could’ve ended my career. And then what would I have had left? Really nothing. At least I could keep skating. All I wanted from you was a body.”
Well there’s a gut punch.
She must see the look on my face, how much that hurts, because she starts to backpedal. “Beckett, I didn’t mean—You’re a brilliant skater. You know I went through a few other partners before I settled on you, and you’re wonderful. I wouldn’t trade you on the ice for anyone. Our short program was impeccable, and our free skate is going to be just as good, because you’re strong, you work harder than anyone I know except me, and you’re consistent. You take your responsibilities very seriously, and I—You’re not just a body to me. You’ve got to know that.”
I do. I know how good I am. I know how hard I work. And as much as she might say so, the sex we’ve been having for the past three weeks hasn’t been blow-off-steam kind of lays, it hasn’t been itch-scratching fucks. Maybe it started out that way, but it’s different now and I hate that she’s trying to take that away from me.
“Well, you’re more than a body to me. You’re more than the best skating partner I’ve ever had, you’re more than a sex doll. I like you, Jubilee, and I think you like me too. I get why you wouldn’t want to have your whole life depend on one person, but I’ve got to tell you, I’ve done it the other way, and what waits for you out there is a different kind of heartache.”
No, she’s not going to have her sexuality questioned or mocked, but . . . “Your partner won’t understand how you spend your time and money. They won’t respect and support your dedication the way I do. You won’t be able to talk to them about the nitty-gritty of your day. And they’re always going to wonder if you’re not a little bit in love with me. I know you wouldn’t be unfaithful, because that’s not how you’re wired, but they’d be right to worry, because I’d be in love with you and they’d be able to tell. And as much as you hate to admit it, I think you’d be in love with me too.”
I’m breathing hard, like I just finished another program, but I don’t feel victorious like I had earlier. I gave this performance my all as much as I had on the ice, and it doesn’t seem good enough. Jubilee seems pained, but not at all convinced. Her face screws into a mask of pain, her expressive features rendered into something like longing, something like regret—just the way she said she’d feel. I should’ve seen this coming, but I’m not a smart guy.
“And yet, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. But a chance on you?” She shakes her head and bites her lips between her teeth. “No. I’m sorry.”
I take a hard swallow, trying to clear the lump out of my throat, but the damn thing won’t budge. “So this is it? After tomorrow, we’re just over?”
“No! I don’t want to not skate with you. And if you end our partnership on the ice . . .”
“Say it, Jubilee, say it. At least give me that. Admit you’d be losing everything again, because that’s how I’ll feel.”
But she won’t. She fucking won’t. Her eyes get narrow and hard, and she sets her jaw. Ice princess indeed. She’s colder than that. What’s colder than ice?
“I would be upset, yes. You weren’t easy to find, and you’re irreplaceable. But . . . it wouldn’t be the same, and I resent you implying it would be. You’re not Stephen.”
The urge to resort to cruelty is so strong, but as angry as I am with her, as much as this unfairness is eating away at my gut, I won’t say it: No, I’m not, because I’m alive and Stephen is dead. She knows. She thinks about it every day. She’s probably still in love with him, and while I might have replaced him on the ice, I’ll never take his spot in her heart. I don’t even want it. He can have it. I just want a little corner, that’s all. Surely he must’ve left a tiny piece available for the next guy?
She must take my silence for giving in, because her face gets softer, like she’s letting herself melt a bit now that she thinks she’s getting what she wants. “Hey. We’ll skate tomorrow, it’ll be great and we’ll make everyone proud. Probably bring home some hardware. And then we’ll take a break. You’ll meet some girl who’s not a moron like Sabrina or Felicia, and you’ll forget all about this. We’ll joke about it in a couple of years. Remember that time at the SIGs when we thought we were in love?”
So she does admit it. Just not in the way I want. And it kills me. I kind of wish she hadn’t said it at all. Which is probably why I can’t help myself anymore. “Yeah, that sounds great. Can’t wait. You’ll meet some frigging . . . hockey player or something. And he’ll send you roses when what you really want is a pillow shaped like a mermaid that has rainbow hair. That’ll be really fucking awesome.”
I may or may not have seen that exact pillow in a shop while I was out walking around Denver yesterday, and I may or may not have gone in and bought it for her and it may or may not be sitting in my bottom drawer, waiting for the competition to be over. I’m going to set that goddamn mermaid on fire.
I shouldn’t have done that—lost my temper. It lets her think she’s making a smart decision when she is so wrong, on a scale of one to wrong, she’s off the charts. She tips her head, and gives me that oh, Beckett look I hate, and her voice is all condescending patience when she says, “Perfect. Looking forward to it. But for now, we need to rest up for tomorrow. It’s a big day and I don’t want this—” She gestures between us, and it makes steam come out my ears that she can sum us up in that little wave. “To interfere with our performance. It won’t, right, Beckett?”
I want to yell at her to stop talking to me like I’m a child, but that seems . . . childish? So I won’t. Yes, she has a few years on me, but that doesn’t make her the smarter, more mature, wiser person in this partnership. If anything, this conversation is proving that in the ways that matter most, Jubilation Lee Buford is really fucking stupid.
Also, it is brought to my attention in a really unfortunate way that we’re in a public place when Daphne pokes her head around the corner. “The last flight is done. The Russians killed it, the Chinese had a bobble on their side-by-side triple toe, the Germans had a good solid program, and the Canadian put a hand down landing her throw triple flip. You’re in second.”